Here
by midnightneverland
Summary: Warren doesn't prod; he never does. He just lies back, his gaze an open question before them and it's up to Max if she answers or not. Sometimes she does—small glimpses of her nightmares that flash before her eyes before she rips them out of her thoughts and out of her head. Tonight, she doesn't.
In Max's dorm, there are three things constant in the dead of the night—the dripping faucet in the girls' bathroom, the wind outside, and the soft snores next to her. The other girls swear Max is the only one who can hear the faucet, that it's all in her head. But she will toss and turn anyway, pressing the pillow against the shell of her ears, even as the drops still echo like footsteps far too close. It makes her think of _his_ shoes, too sharp on the tiled floor as they inch closer to her. But those shoes are long gone, tucked away in some void of lost prisoner items. She hopes he never sees them again. Against the dripping water, she imagines her own footsteps and presses her feet against the sheets of her bed. They wrap around her ankles and will stay until she moves and pulls them away herself.

The wind creaks against the old roof, groaning against the air that pushes through the roof tiles. There are nights when she thinks the whole thing will cave in and during the worst of the nightmares, they've jarred her out of sleep with _his_ voice, roaring with the rush of blood in her ears. This is one of those nights.

The deep snores rumble in the chest of the boy next to her. This has only been constant for the past week. As the days have passed, he's lost more and more clothes before he and Max finally pass out beside each other. Sometimes, when his lips are pressed to the side of her face, his snores will jar her awake as well. But then his breath will wash over her face, still slightly overwhelming from his toothpaste. He would use the whole tube to brush his teeth if she let him, especially if it let him kiss her in the middle of the night.

But now, he lies silent next to her, her hand pressed against his bare chest, and the quick movements against her palm tell her that he's awake.

"You okay?" he whispers, trying to rub away the goose-flesh on her arms. "You're shaking."

She cranes her neck to feel his eyelashes against her forehead. "Bad dream," she whispers back and he presses a lingering kiss against her temple.

"Want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head. She doesn't want to rehash the fear that trickles out of her throat every time she thinks of the silver tape tight against her wrists, the heaviness in her head as she tries to push away, tries to push _out._ She doesn't want to see Chloe's face as she lies before her, crumpled and still, like a doll that Jefferson has just tossed aside. She doesn't want to see any of it.

In the strip of moonlight from her window, she sees Warren's gentle eyes before her, not the calculating gaze of Jefferson. He doesn't prod; he never does. He just lies back, his gaze an open question before them and it's up to her if she answers or not. Sometimes she does—small glimpses of her nightmares that flash before her eyes before she rips them out of her thoughts and out of her head. Tonight, she doesn't. She clings to this as his arms encircle her, his fingers pressure points against the bare flesh of her back.

"Sometimes it helps," he says, and she doesn't know if he's talking about the dream or his touch but she leans back into his hands and slides her eyes closed. His fingers rest against her hips, tapping some thoughtful rhythm, and she hears a cough beside her that sounds too much like _him._ Her eyes snap open immediately.

She hates that she finds him in the smallest of places, slipping in like a shadow that disappears as soon as someone turns off the light. She sees him in the crowd of students in the morning, a glare of the ceiling light on his glasses. She hears his voice behind her when she zones out during class or when she's studying her photos. She flinches from his touch when someone bumps into her. She still sees his name on her schedule, even when she scratches it out with a red pen, when she whites it out, when she tapes a blank piece of paper over it.

And in her dreams, there are too many flashes of white light and his face peering down at her, scrutinizing her.

"Max?" Warren's fingers brush wetly against her cheekbones and she swallows and nods.

"I'm okay," she says. And Jefferson's not there, standing by the door with a syringe in one hand, just like in her dream. She's not in the chair, wrists and ankles bound as she tries to make sense of the reality around her.

She shivers and huddles into the warmth of Warren's chest. His arms immediately pull her closer. She focuses on the steady beat of his heart, the familiar cadence that anchors her to this reality—the closed door, the night sky out her window. She counts the stars peering through the tree branches, counts them until she can't keep track of them and they're all just one blur of light streaking through the leaves.

"I'm here," he murmurs against her ear with chaste kisses against her cheek. And she nods again, burrowing her head in the crook of his neck, pressing her own lips against his collarbone. He tastes like salt and the lingering bitterness of soap. His heartbeat picks up speed at the movement of her lips but his hands still against her waist, steady.

"I know," she replies and his lips find hers, kissing her till sleep finally claims him. And in the creak of the mattress as she settles into a more comfortable spot, she's here, too. There's the drip of the faucet faintly echoing from the girls' bathroom, the creak of the wind above her, the snores rumbling against her cheek as she settles into sleep herself.


End file.
